An exercise in futility (or how I learned to love wet feet)
Posted: Sun Nov 08, 2015 9:34 pm
"It's looking a bit wet out there", said my mate who dropped me off at Knighton station on Saturday morning for the start of my attempt on the Trans Cambrian Way. If only he knew how prophetic those words were.
From the very get go, things were conspiring against me. I knew I had a touch of play in the bottom bracket, but didn't let that stop me. I knew it would be wet, so I packed extra socks. But the real player in the game was the ultra-soggy ground, wet leaves and churned up bridleways, which I'm happily renaming bimbleways as that's about as much as can be done on a wet November Saturday. Slushy grassy climbs, bomb craters masquerading as puddles, tracks that looked like a farmer had taken a hoe down them...you name it, it was out there. And quite a bit of it was simply not rideable if one valued their own life, or at the very least, didn't want a trip to A&E with one of a number of bones not how they should be.
The first 'interesting' moment came at the ford crossing Llanbadarn Fynydd. Well, I say ford cross...let's not mince words here - raging f*cking torrent is probably more apt. I don't mind wet feet, but I'm somewhat adverse to balls-deep river crossings where there's white water forming as it surges over whatever is hidden in the murky depths. Balls-deep and swept away is fine if you're with a lady, but not in the aforementioned torrent with a loaded bike on your shoulder and a lot of riding in your immediate future. Safely across with only one moment where I let a little bit of wee escape (which didn't matter as my shorts were already wet), I laughed heartily at the stupidity of what I'd just done and continued the climbing.
It was, at this point, where I gave in to Wales and embraced the wetness between my toes. I might as well, I figured, as it was going to be a long day and no doubt there was much more to come. And oh yes there was!
There were the occasional moments where the route would burst into a little piece of forest with a nice piece of gravel where, for a fleeting moment, the speedometer would read in excess of 6 miles per hour, and the occasional crafty little piece of single track that would have me smiling, but for the most part, there was simply mouthfuls of words that don't deserve print time. That got my goat a little...why the track takes in a bunch of tarmac where the forest roads on Red Lion Hill could be used, or why there's a rubbish bimbleway up to Brondre Fawr Hill used where a perfectly good forest road not only goes to the same location but would be infinitely more rideable.
Now I'll be the first to admit that a late start didn't help procedings, so when I dropped down from the forest into Rhayader on dusk, I said a few more inappropriate things, full well knowing what was coming up next. "That" track...yeah...you know it if you've been to Claerwen and have seen the glistening sliver of crap across the river. I know now why it's been uttered to me a few times as I've cruised on the pavement looking across the way that "you don't want to go there". I know now also why you don't want to go there in the dark on a wet Novemeber evening.
I'd have gone around Beacon Hill in all it's muddy glory a dozen times if it meant missing out on that track which was desperately trying to break out of it's classification as a track and be labelled as 'stream'. It's probably quite interesting in the daylight, when it's not torrenting water one way or another towards the nearest gushing outlet. But not in the dark, no! An hour of pushing/carrying/skirting sections of this was down right sour.
This was swiftly followed by the run around Claerwen reservoir, which in the darkness, I have to admit, wasn't too bad. It seems to go on forever in daylight, but in the dark, it was over and done with in what seemed like record time. I'll wager Strava doesn't think the same way.
Upon reaching the tarmac beyond the track, I had two choices - Claerddu or Nant Rhys. A quick peek at my watch showed I'd already been slogging away for 11 hours, so Claerddu was an easy winner. Which is all well and good if you know where the track is, but in my haste to get warm, dry and out of the now intermittent rain, I had no clue whatsoever and proceeded to tussock yomp in a manner that would do any Bearbones veteran proud. Armed only with "it's north of me" on my trusty Etrex, I yomped, stumbled, sunk into bog, bitched and moaned and generally made slow progress towards the bothy.
When I stumbled across a track and my spirits brightened, I consulted the Etrex and Garmin's 50/50 interpretation of the direction I was facing whilst travelling at below 2mph and promptly launched myself in the wrong direction, skirting to the west of the hill directly in front of the bothy, bringing me to the creek and what can only pass as goat track/insanity-when-carrying-a-bike path with a bit of a drop down to my left. After narrowly avoiding falling on some slippery rock down into said creek, I found the bridge and made my way over to the empty bothy.
Job done...or so I thought...as my ignition failed me and no heat was to be had. Instead, I hung my stinking, wet riding kit about the place, utilised my now go-to Bearbones supasoaker towel, put on some dry kit and crawled into my bag, revelling in my dry socks and the warmth of the down I'd ensconced myself in. Time for food, a drink and shuteye. Tomorrow will be better I tell myself. I'm soon visited by the Sandman.
My alarm woke me in the AM...or was it the rain pinging off the window? Either way, I was awake and looking at more grey sky, more wet weather. A check over Lois brought a different reality home; the play in my bottom bracket was now at a point where I was wondering if it'd make it back to civilization without me carrying her. I signed the bothy book, took the correct route out of tussockville and made my way down the trail, feeling for how things were in the nether regions of my girl. When I got to the turn for Glyn Pools, my mind was made up - leave this for a drier, less windy day (the headwinds had been ferocious), tuck my tail between my legs and churn out the miles back to the nearest station on the pavement.
With this plan of attack, things were looking good and sounding bad (two loud bangs from the bottom bracket indicating bearings dying at a rapid rate). And then I was greeted by the 16% climb out of Pont-rhyd-y-groes, the sheet rain upon reaching Ponterwyd and the soul destroying gusts of wind that would slice 5mph off any speed I was doing at the time on the road to Llangurig. Making Llangurig was a milestone, knowing that there's a big chunk of downhill coming up and in the end, I dumped myself at Caersws station with 20 minutes before the next train. Just as well, as I was wet through yet again and getting to that borderline stage just before deep set shivering sets in. On the train back home, I surveyed the damage in the nether regions of Lois - the play had extended itself to 5 or 6mm - time for a visit to the LBS.
All in all, in a masochistic kind of way I rather enjoyed myself. It's a great route...well I bet it's great when it's dry and the wind isn't blowing in your face all the time! I'll be back...next year...when Wales finally dries out.
Greetz
S.
[Edited for sloppy spelling and missing words]
From the very get go, things were conspiring against me. I knew I had a touch of play in the bottom bracket, but didn't let that stop me. I knew it would be wet, so I packed extra socks. But the real player in the game was the ultra-soggy ground, wet leaves and churned up bridleways, which I'm happily renaming bimbleways as that's about as much as can be done on a wet November Saturday. Slushy grassy climbs, bomb craters masquerading as puddles, tracks that looked like a farmer had taken a hoe down them...you name it, it was out there. And quite a bit of it was simply not rideable if one valued their own life, or at the very least, didn't want a trip to A&E with one of a number of bones not how they should be.
The first 'interesting' moment came at the ford crossing Llanbadarn Fynydd. Well, I say ford cross...let's not mince words here - raging f*cking torrent is probably more apt. I don't mind wet feet, but I'm somewhat adverse to balls-deep river crossings where there's white water forming as it surges over whatever is hidden in the murky depths. Balls-deep and swept away is fine if you're with a lady, but not in the aforementioned torrent with a loaded bike on your shoulder and a lot of riding in your immediate future. Safely across with only one moment where I let a little bit of wee escape (which didn't matter as my shorts were already wet), I laughed heartily at the stupidity of what I'd just done and continued the climbing.
It was, at this point, where I gave in to Wales and embraced the wetness between my toes. I might as well, I figured, as it was going to be a long day and no doubt there was much more to come. And oh yes there was!
There were the occasional moments where the route would burst into a little piece of forest with a nice piece of gravel where, for a fleeting moment, the speedometer would read in excess of 6 miles per hour, and the occasional crafty little piece of single track that would have me smiling, but for the most part, there was simply mouthfuls of words that don't deserve print time. That got my goat a little...why the track takes in a bunch of tarmac where the forest roads on Red Lion Hill could be used, or why there's a rubbish bimbleway up to Brondre Fawr Hill used where a perfectly good forest road not only goes to the same location but would be infinitely more rideable.
- Looks can be deceiving
- glyndersWay.jpg (211.93 KiB) Viewed 9667 times
I'd have gone around Beacon Hill in all it's muddy glory a dozen times if it meant missing out on that track which was desperately trying to break out of it's classification as a track and be labelled as 'stream'. It's probably quite interesting in the daylight, when it's not torrenting water one way or another towards the nearest gushing outlet. But not in the dark, no! An hour of pushing/carrying/skirting sections of this was down right sour.
This was swiftly followed by the run around Claerwen reservoir, which in the darkness, I have to admit, wasn't too bad. It seems to go on forever in daylight, but in the dark, it was over and done with in what seemed like record time. I'll wager Strava doesn't think the same way.
Upon reaching the tarmac beyond the track, I had two choices - Claerddu or Nant Rhys. A quick peek at my watch showed I'd already been slogging away for 11 hours, so Claerddu was an easy winner. Which is all well and good if you know where the track is, but in my haste to get warm, dry and out of the now intermittent rain, I had no clue whatsoever and proceeded to tussock yomp in a manner that would do any Bearbones veteran proud. Armed only with "it's north of me" on my trusty Etrex, I yomped, stumbled, sunk into bog, bitched and moaned and generally made slow progress towards the bothy.
When I stumbled across a track and my spirits brightened, I consulted the Etrex and Garmin's 50/50 interpretation of the direction I was facing whilst travelling at below 2mph and promptly launched myself in the wrong direction, skirting to the west of the hill directly in front of the bothy, bringing me to the creek and what can only pass as goat track/insanity-when-carrying-a-bike path with a bit of a drop down to my left. After narrowly avoiding falling on some slippery rock down into said creek, I found the bridge and made my way over to the empty bothy.
Job done...or so I thought...as my ignition failed me and no heat was to be had. Instead, I hung my stinking, wet riding kit about the place, utilised my now go-to Bearbones supasoaker towel, put on some dry kit and crawled into my bag, revelling in my dry socks and the warmth of the down I'd ensconced myself in. Time for food, a drink and shuteye. Tomorrow will be better I tell myself. I'm soon visited by the Sandman.
My alarm woke me in the AM...or was it the rain pinging off the window? Either way, I was awake and looking at more grey sky, more wet weather. A check over Lois brought a different reality home; the play in my bottom bracket was now at a point where I was wondering if it'd make it back to civilization without me carrying her. I signed the bothy book, took the correct route out of tussockville and made my way down the trail, feeling for how things were in the nether regions of my girl. When I got to the turn for Glyn Pools, my mind was made up - leave this for a drier, less windy day (the headwinds had been ferocious), tuck my tail between my legs and churn out the miles back to the nearest station on the pavement.
With this plan of attack, things were looking good and sounding bad (two loud bangs from the bottom bracket indicating bearings dying at a rapid rate). And then I was greeted by the 16% climb out of Pont-rhyd-y-groes, the sheet rain upon reaching Ponterwyd and the soul destroying gusts of wind that would slice 5mph off any speed I was doing at the time on the road to Llangurig. Making Llangurig was a milestone, knowing that there's a big chunk of downhill coming up and in the end, I dumped myself at Caersws station with 20 minutes before the next train. Just as well, as I was wet through yet again and getting to that borderline stage just before deep set shivering sets in. On the train back home, I surveyed the damage in the nether regions of Lois - the play had extended itself to 5 or 6mm - time for a visit to the LBS.
All in all, in a masochistic kind of way I rather enjoyed myself. It's a great route...well I bet it's great when it's dry and the wind isn't blowing in your face all the time! I'll be back...next year...when Wales finally dries out.
Greetz
S.
[Edited for sloppy spelling and missing words]
